


If I Lose Myself Tonight

by iwritegood



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcoholic John, College Student Sam, Everyone Is Alive, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mechanic Dean, Non-Supernatural AU, Professor Castiel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-19 14:34:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1473319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwritegood/pseuds/iwritegood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Yes, well, Winchester’s not a name one tends to forget.”</p><p>“Neither’s Castiel."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "If I Lose Myself Tonight" is the title of a OneRepublic song, or my current obsession. 
> 
> Warning: This story deals with physical, verbal, and drug abuse in relation to Dean's troubled past. It's by no means a main theme, but there are flashbacks. If that's something you don't feel comfortable reading, I'd advise you to use caution when checking out this story. 
> 
> A/N: Dean's a mechanic in this AU, but alas, I am not. Forgive me if I use incorrect terminology or don't describe something adequately. If there's a major glaring error, feel free to message and correct me. I have this set up in my mind as a five-parter, and will post each chapter when the next is finished.

The roar is unlike anything he’s ever heard before. It has a life of its own, and it’s hungry, no, ravenous. His baby brother is heavy in his arms as he runs as fast as his feet will allow, but the flames are close, licking at his heels. His skin is blistering and his lungs are full of smoke and from somewhere deeper in the house she’s screaming…

Dean bolts upright, gasping for air, but his lungs won’t let him breathe because they expect nothing but hot ash and dense black smoke. When he finally convinces his body there’s really no fire, he only feels fractionally better. His teeth are chattering so he clenches them together; his hands are shaking so he balls them into fists. He’s hot but his body is covered in a cold sweat.

Dragging his hands down his face, Dean swings his legs over the edge of the bed and looks at the clock. The glowing red numbers say 6:04, and Dean realizes he can go back to bed for a good hour but knows he won’t be getting any more sleep. Instead, he jumps into the shower, clothes and all, and turns the water to freezing. 

He braces his forearms against the wall and hangs his head, letting the water beat into his scalp and shoulders, drenching his clothes. The icy spray drowns out any feelings the nightmare had left. He tugs off his shirt and steps out of his shorts, leaving them in a wet heap at the other end of the bathtub. 

Fifteen minutes later he’s stepping out and wrapping a towel around his waist. The birds are starting to sing, and the sound leaks through the open windows of the townhouse. Dean walks out of the bathroom and down the short hallway, pausing at the door closest to the kitchen. He pounds on it.

“Sammy, you up? You got class at seven.” There’s an unintelligible response and a groan from the other side, and Dean rolls his eyes. “You’ve only got a few more weeks. Finish strong and all that.” Dean can’t help the dash of sarcasm that graces his last sentence.

Just as he’s turning away, the door flies open and Sam is there, all long limbs and bed hair. He’d surpassed Dean in height years ago, a little factoid that Dean prefers to pointedly ignore. “You’re not funny, Dean.”

“I think I’m hilarious,” Dean says, and reaches up to ruffle his baby brother’s hair. “Coffee?”

“Tea. Jess dropped off some jasmine when she was here two days ago,” Sam yawns.

Dean grimaces. “Dude, I’m not making you tea.”

Sam grumbles and shuts the door. Dean walks into his bedroom and dons his uniform, his index finger gliding over the stitching that rests over the left side of his chest: Dean, and then, Head Mechanic. He smiles to himself. It’s already been a week since he’s gotten the position, but the novelty still hasn’t worn off, especially with how much worked he’s put into getting where he is today.

His smile drops a bit when he remembers square one, nine years and 138 days ago, and yes, he’s counted. “Get your shit together, boy, or I’ll call the cops my goddamn self. This ain’t you.” Dean has long accepted the fact that Bobby’s words will ring in his head until he’s old and gray and on his deathbed. 

In the kitchen, Dean fries up eggs and bacon and toasts four pieces of bread. Sam’s been on a health kick but he’s never been able to resist Dean’s breakfast sandwiches. Dean smirks to himself when he hears Sam’s bedroom door creak open. 

Rolling up the sleeves of his light flannel, Sam waits patiently at the far end of the counter. Dean makes and wraps a sandwich for him that Sam grudgingly accepts before grabbing a bottle of water and ducking out of the kitchen. “See ya,” his little brother says.

“Have a wonderful day, Sammy,” Dean bats his eyelashes.

Just as he’s finishing his own breakfast, Dean hears his phone beep, and sees that he’s missed a call. When the number shows up on his screen, his stomach turns. He deletes the call and shoves his phone in his pocket before grabbing his things and heading out the door.

Dean’s going to pretend it never happened, because that’s what he’s good at. 

Pretending. 

-

Singer Auto & Body Shop is slow as it’s only eight when Dean walks in. He groans when Ruby, the receptionist, looks up. “On time for the third day in a row. What a boy scout.” She smiles with teeth, and the look is so predatory that a shudder rolls down Dean’s spine.

Nut up, Winchester. You are a grown ass man. “You do know that most people make it a point to be on time for work?” he asks.

Ruby shrugs.

“Hey, hey!” Ash, another mechanic, walks by and slaps him on the back. “The Gallagher Toyota is all ready to go, but we’re gonna need more time with the Chambers Audi. Transmission’s absolutely shot.”

“Thanks for letting me know. Good time on the Gallagher project,” Dean nods, making a mental note of the Audi’s status.

“Only for you.” Ash punctuates his statement with a toss of his mullet before disappearing back into the garage part of the shop. 

Dean grins and turns to Ruby. “So, anything new come up?”

She looks up from filing her nails, her brown eyes nearly black in her narrow-eyed gaze. “Yes, Dean, so many new things. We’re slammed. And through it all, I still found the time to do my nails. I’m amazing.”

Dean stares at her. “Thanks, Ruby. Always a pleasure.”

“Anytime, boss,” she winks at him. 

Dean doesn’t like going over the books, but it’s a necessary evil and he steels himself as he walks into his tiny office. It’s cluttered with paper and an ancient computer and notes and writing utensils and a filing cabinet, but it’s Dean’s organized chaos and he settles into it nicely. 

An hour into his work, the shrill ringing of the phone on his desk makes him jump and curse. It’s Ruby. “Mr. Singer for you on line one,” she says sweetly, looking at him through the glass.

Dean’s smile is just as syrupy. “Put him through.”

“Is the place is ruins?” Bobby asks without preamble once he’s through.

Dean snorts. “Your faith in me is what keeps me going, man. It really is.”

Bobby laughs and the sound instantly puts Dean in a good mood. “To be fair, I did wait an entire week before bothering you.”

“Smooth as whiskey over here, to answer your question. Still dying to fire Ruby. Why can’t I, again?” Dean asks.

“I’ve known her for forever, Dean. She’s had a rough go of it, but she’s damn reliable and – ”

“Yeah, okay, Mr. Robert “Charity Case Hero” Singer,” Dean mutters.

“Boy, I heard that,” Bobby barks. “Listen, as much as I’d like to shoot the shit with you, that’s not why I called. Have you been dodging your dad’s phone calls?”

Dean’s good mood evaporates and the twisting feeling returns to his stomach. “No.”

Bobby is silent. 

“Maybe.”

Nothing. 

“All right, yes.”

Bobby sighs. “Dean, you know he’s not my go-to guy either, but he’s on the wagon this time. I invited him over for our Sunday dinner this month.”

Dean clenches his teeth to bite back the nasty string of swear words he’s about to emit. One Sunday out of every month, Bobby holds nothing short of a feast at his place. It’s been a tradition since Sam and Dean were boys. “Why?”

“Oh, come on, son. You and Sam’ll just have to get through one day with him. He doesn’t deserve a lot, but give John that.”

“Alright, yeah, cool,” Dean says, and he says it fast because he needs to get off this phone before he lashes out at Bobby, who doesn’t deserve that. “Listen, I should get back to these books. I have a few things left to do.”

“Ah, books are a bitch. Retirement’s treating me well, by the way,” Bobby says smugly.

Dean forces a smile and hopes the attempt at amity leaks into his tone. “Great to hear. Talk later.”

“Sounds good.”

Dean places the phone back into the cradle with caution even though he wants to slam it down, wants to swipe all these papers off his desk, wants to overturn his chair and punch the nearest wall. He switches from coffee to water before he returns to the task at hand, hoping less caffeine will calm him. 

He hates him.

He doesn’t hate him.

John’s his father.

He definitely hates him.

What gives him the fucking right, though? He’s waltzed in and out of their lives whenever he wants and doesn’t give two shits about the pain he leaves behind when he goes to find his next drink. Dean doesn’t want it, doesn’t want the memory anymore, but suddenly he’s eighteen again and a drug addicted, dropout loser stumbling through the door.

The apartment they’re renting is dinky and dingy and smells vaguely of cat piss. Sam and Dean share a room but Dean’s rarely home except for nights like these when they kick him out because there’s no room back at the haven. He’s strung out, hyper and sluggish at the same time and can’t remember the last time he’s eaten or taken a shower.

Eve, that night’s designated driver, half drags him to the door of the apartment. He’s leaning heavily on her and, when he first started using, would have crippled her stride, but he’s lost weight, a lot of weight and she supports him with ease. “Get some sleep, Winchester,” she mutters, and she’s gone. 

That’s exactly what he wants to do, sleep. Also maybe throw up. Throw up in bed. Whatever. He goes to put his key in the lock but his arm is heavy. He tries three more times before the door flies open and John’s standing in the doorway, his expression thunderous. Dean drops his key and wants to run, but his legs aren’t listening. Even through his drug-induced haze, though, he can smell the booze on John. Whiskey tonight. 

“Where you been?” John asks, and his words are a growl.

“Out,” Dean grunts. 

“Out,” John mimics, and suddenly he’s shoving Dean so hard that Dean slams into the door of the apartment across from them. 

Dean’s head cracks against the wood and his vision goes black for three terrifying seconds. He barely has time to recover before John’s in his face, his father’s skin red and blotchy and his breath making Dean’s eyes water. 

“Out shooting up, huh? Out knocking up girls or taking it up the ass, huh? Out being a useless piece of shit, Dean? Is that what you’ve been out doing?”

Rage coils tight in the pit of Dean’s stomach. “Yeah, being a no good piece of shit’s my specialty, Dad,” Dean says, breathing hard and grinning. “I learned everything I know from you.” 

The back of John’s hand connects with the side of Dean’s face with enough force to knock him over, and as he falls, he can distantly hear fourteen-year-old Sammy screaming bloody murder and Mrs. Swanson from down the hall saying she’s going to call the police…

Dean’s trip down memory lane is put on hold when a snapping sound garners his attention. It takes him a minute to realize that he’s broken the pencil in his hand in half. Grimacing, he brushes the shavings off his pants and throws the pieces into the wastebasket at the side of his desk. Rolling his shoulders, Dean tells himself to focus and leave the past in the past. He turns his attention back to the books.

Hours later, his stomach is grumbling. The rich scent of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies wafts through the air and Dean looks up with interest. Jo Harvelle, Bobby’s stepdaughter, is balancing a piping hot tray of cookies in one hand and holding a shopping bag with the other, all while arguing with the receptionist.

“Do you have an appointment, sweetie?” Ruby asks, folding her hands on her desk.

“Please, like I’ve ever needed one. Just tell him I have food. He’ll let me in,” Jo says.

Before Ruby can reply, Dean’s rushing out of his office and rubbing his hands together. “Hey, kiddo, how’s it going?” he asks. Without waiting for her reply, he grabs and shoves an entire cookie into his mouth.

It’s the ultimate battle to keep a straight face as the confection burns off a layer of his taste buds. He swallows and his eyes fill up with tears.

Jo arches a brow. “Little hot?”

“Not at all,” Dean whispers. “They’re just so damn good.”

Jo punches him in the arm and laughs while Ruby rolls her eyes. Jo offers the receptionist a cookie. “Are they gluten free?” Ruby asks.

“No?” 

“Gross. You should really think about what you’re putting into your body, you know.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jo says in a tone that suggests she’ll do nothing of the sort. She leaves the tray on Ruby’s desk for the rest of the staff.

Dean invites Jo back into his office, clearing away the clutter on his desk. He gestures to the seat opposite him and she sits down, holding the shopping bag aloft. “I also brought you lunch. Double cheeseburger from the Roadhouse.”

“Awesome,” Dean nearly moans, taking the proffered bag. “How’s the Roadhouse doing, by the way?”

“Like usual,” Jo shrugs, and he knows that to mean business was slow but steady.

Joanna Beth and Ellen Harvelle came into Bobby’s life when Dean was twenty-two and Sam eighteen. For years, Jo had a painfully obvious crush on Dean that he at some times found annoying and others adorable. Sam hit it off right away with the two ladies, but Dean took some time getting used to Ellen’s brusqueness and take-no-bullshit attitude. 

As Dean digs into his burger, Jo chatters, her smile bright. “So today in class, Adam – ”

Dean interrupts her, clearing his throat. “Wait, Adam who?”

“Milligan!” Jo says and gives him a look that says Keep up, will you?

Dean puts down his food and points at her. “Oh, right; that guy you’ve mentioned three times. Things are getting serious.”

Jo makes a face at him. “Anyway…”

Dean Winchester loves Jo Harvelle dearly, but beyond that, he tunes her out for his own sanity when she talks her latest flavor of the week. He knows she’ll be freaking out about another guy in a few days, so he enjoys his burger, impending-doom-thoughts about John mostly forgotten.

Mostly.

\- 

Castiel Novak knows that texting and driving is a proverbial sin, but it’s been a long day at the university and he’s not thinking clearly. So when his phone buzzes, he knows he should keep his eyes on the road but instead he pulls it out and clicks on the message from Gabe.

At first Castiel can’t make out the picture, but when he does, he can almost feel the blood drain from his face. We have a problem, reads Gabe’s message. The problem is a building, a building they own, engulfed in flames. 

And when Castiel looks up, he notices he’s drifted, not just lanes but all the way to the side of the god damned road, and oh, there’s a lamppost. 

The impact rips through his body as the post rips through the front bumper of his car. His head slams back against the headrest and then again against the window and the seatbelt tightens; Castiel briefly wonders how bad the bruising will be. His phone goes flying and he hears a faint shattering sound. Great. When it’s over, he sits there for a full two minutes, stunned. He pinches his own cheek to make sure he’s not dead and carefully flexes his legs and feet. Both are working. In front of him, the hood of his car is emitting smoke.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Dammit.”

Rapid knocking on his window distracts him. Startled, Castiel jerks and meets the concerned eyes of a civilian. “Sir, are you okay? Sir, can you hear me? Are you hurt?”

Her words are muffled, but Castiel makes out most of them. Gingerly, he unbuckles his seat belt and opens the car door. “I – I’m fine. I think.”

“Sir, I’ve called 911. They should be here shortly. Do you know what happened? Do you know your name?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, more irritably than he means to. “I’m Castiel.”

“Nice to meet you, Mister…uh…Castiel. I mean…not like, nice to meet you considering the circumstances, but I’m sure you’re a nice guy. I’m Hael Milton. You might be in a bit of shock, which is totally normal –”

Despite himself and his situation, Castiel cracks a smile. “Nursing student?”

Hael’s blue eyes go round. “Oh my god, yes! How’d you know?”

“My sister, Anna, had the same disposition you do when she was in school. She works at Sacred Heart in pediatrics.”

Before the young woman can reply, sirens sound in the distance, and Castiel sighs. The Volvo, the lamppost, that godforsaken building…the tab is adding up quick. The ambulance and sheriff’s vehicle is there in no time, and Hael wishes him luck before departing after confirming with the sheriff that she had called 911. Castiel gives her a small wave before turning his attention to the officer.

“Are you in need of medical attention, sir?” she asks.

“No, I’m quite alright,” Castiel says, ignoring the giant bruise he can practically feel forming on his entire torso. 

“Hmm. Can’t say the same for your car. We’re going to give you a routine check anyway. I’m Sheriff Jody Mills. You are?” she asks, and gestures for him to follow her over to the ambulance.

“Castiel Novak.”

A male EMT begins taking his vitals and shining a flashlight in his eyes, much to his annoyance.

If Mills finds his name odd, she doesn’t say so, nor does it reflect on her face. “Have you been drinking tonight, Mr. Novak?”

“No,” he says, indignant. “I’m coming from work. It’s just been a long day. I may have been a little drowsy.”

“Where do you work?”

“Washburn. I teach.”

The sheriff raises her eyebrows. “At the university? What do you teach?”

“Anthro – ow.”

The EMT shoots him an apologetic look. Castiel looks down; the man’s nametag reads ‘Shurley.’ “You’re cut on the side of your forehead. I have to clean it.” 

Castiel narrows his eyes. He felt nothing, but then again, his adrenaline levels were through the roof. “I teach Anthropology at the university. I got off thirty minutes ago after being there since five this morning.”

“I understand where you’re coming from, Mr. Novak, I really do. We’ll see if this all checks out. It’s just routine. In the meantime, I’ll let Chuck finish up with you and I’ll have Rosen call a tow for your vehicle,” Mills says, and her small smile puts Castiel at ease.

A second EMT, one he’d not noticed before, jumps up. “I’ll get right on that, ma’am. I’m sure Singer Auto & Body shop is still open.” 

Once Chuck is finished with him, Castiel drags his hands down his face. An hour ago he just finished up his lecture notes and planned to come home and watch the documentary on a newfound tribe in Africa with a glass of red wine before turning in for the night. 

So much for that.

\- 

The phone rings at 6:50, ten minutes before closing time. Dean hears Ruby curse before answering it. Ash and the other mechanics on duty, Benny Lafitte and Garth Fitzgerald, hold their breaths. 

Please don’t be a tow, Dean internally begs whatever higher power there may be.

“Thanks for calling Singer Auto & Body shop! This is Ruby; how can I help you?” The receptionist’s voice is pleasant but her expression screams murder and darkens with each passing second. “We’ll get someone sent out right away,” she says, and all of the guys groan. She slams the phone down into the cradle. “This is bullshit. Some asshole just crashed into a lamppost on Waukega Road.”

“Boss, I’ll do it,” Benny says with a sigh, and his thick Louisiana accent sounds sleepier than usual.

Dean looks at his three employees. “Nah, you know what? I got this one. You guys did good today. Why don’t you all take off for the night?”

In turn, they thank him profusely and head out. Once they’re gone, Ruby turns to him. “I don’t suppose you want to write up and file the paperwork for this one, too?”

“Not a chance. Why do you think I even keep you around?”

She’s unfazed by his blunt admission of dislike. “But I have a date at eight!” she whines. “I still have to get ready.”

“Life sucks,” Dean winks at her and she gives him the finger. 

He’s on Waukega Road in twenty minutes, and even from this distance Dean can see the flashing lights. When he gets closer and sees the damage, he lets out a low whistle. A sleek black Volvo, the model ridiculously new, is banged up pretty good. He’s already doing mental calculations of the cost and time it’ll take to fix her up as he jumps down from the tow truck.

Sheriff Mills comes over to shake his hand. “Dean,” she says warmly, “how are you? I’m sorry; I know you’re technically closed now but you were the closest, and, well, idiocy doesn’t keep to a timed schedule.”

Dean laughs. “Hey, anything for you. Who’s the moron who wrecked that piece of yuppie art?”

“I suppose I’m the moron.”

The voice is deep and gravelly, sending a shock of heat to his belly that goes all the way to his dick. The heat goes back up to his face and Dean’s flushed, embarrassed, when he turns around.

Jesus Christ. The man’s eyes are the color of the fucking ocean or the sky before it turns black at night or blueberry pie. His hair is dark and tousled, like he’s been running his fingers through it.

 _I’d run my fingers through it,_ Dean, much to his dismay, thinks. _Pull on it when his lips are on my –_

Dean clears his throat and hopes it’ll clear his mind, too. “Hey, man, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. Happens to the best of us.” He sticks out his hand. “Dean Winchester.”

The man’s gaze is piercing and his hand is warm and strong. “Castiel Novak.”

Castiel? Eugh. “We’ll get you towed right away, sound good? At least, if you’re free to go?” Dean glances at Sheriff Mills.

She fixes a stern look at Castiel. “You’ll be more careful in the future? Get enough sleep?” she asks, putting a funny emphasis on the word that Castiel but not Dean understands.

“Of course, Sheriff. Thank you for all of your help in this unfortunate situation.”

Once she’s gone, Dean comes to stand at the front of the vehicle. “Your bumper’s fucked.”

Castiel lets out a short breath. “I figured as much.”

“You’ll need new headlights.”

“Obviously.”

“There’re a few dents.”

“You don’t say.”

“Probably – ”

“Mr. Winchester, perhaps we can discuss this another time?” Castiel says suddenly. 

Dean flushes again. He tends to get away from himself when he talks cars. “Yeah, sure. I’ll hook her up. You gonna call a cab?”

Castiel chews on his bottom lip and Dean’s own mouth twitches in response. He glances away. “If I give you some extra money, would you be able to drop me off somewhere? It’s approximately five minutes,” Castiel says.

“Yeah, sure. Ten should cover – ”

And Castiel’s shoving a fucking hundred-dollar bill into his hand before walking around to the passenger side of the truck. Dean stares at the money before shaking his head and slipping it into the breast pocket of his uniform. He hooks the Volvo up to his truck and slides into the driver’s seat. “So, where to, Cas?”

The nickname comes out naturally. Dean blushes for the third fucking time like he’s a fifteen-year-old boy getting his first handjob. Cas doesn’t comment on it. “2768 Elvetic Lane.”

The address is vaguely familiar, but Dean can’t place it. “You got it.”

Normally he plays some Zeppelin or Pink Floyd, but he doesn’t know what Cas will think of it. He also doesn’t know why he cares what Cas will think of it. He pulls out onto the road, and before the silence gets too awkward, Cas breaks it.

“Did you say your name was Winchester?”

Dean glances at him. Cas’s head is cocked to the side and Dean thinks he resembles an owl a bit. “Yeah, why?”

“Are you related to Sam Winchester?”

Dean starts. “He’s my little brother. How do you know him?”

“I’m a professor at Washburn University,” Cas explains, and now that he’s said it, Dean can totally see it.

Cas is decked out in a crisp white button down, a light blue sweater vest and a plaid yellow tie. His slacks are pressed and tan and his shoes are shiny brown Oxfords. 

“No shit?” Dean laughs. “What class is Sammy in of yours?”

“Ah, he’s not. I was in conversation with a colleague the other day that happened to mention Sam, as he’s in her class. He’s an incredibly bright young man from what she says.”

Dean’s chest swells with pride. “Yeah, he’s great. He’s going to Stanford in June. Kid’s been obsessed with the law since he was fourteen. I’m surprised you made the connection.”

Cas chuckles softly and the sound makes Dean feel fuzzy. “Yes, well, Winchester’s not a name one tends to forget.”

“Neither’s Castiel,” Dean points out.

The man shrugs. “Fair enough.”

Dean makes a turn and that’s when he sees it: smoke. It’s white, though, so it’s done burning, but it still makes him nervous. “Wonder what happened over there?”

Cas just sighs.

As they near Cas’s destination, Dean begins to realize what had been so familiar about the address. It’s the lot of a fucking strip club. Of course, it isn’t just any strip club, no: Wingless Angels dominates the strip club scene throughout the entire state, has reviews in Forbes and GQ and Esquire. There are talks of openings in California, Florida and New York, but the owner, known only as Gabe, firmly puts his foot down on just the one location. 

And now it’s charred and smoking, windows smashed and a confused and dumbfounded crowd of patrons and two fire trucks outside.

Dean turns to Cas and is a little put off by the man’s intensely livid expression. “Hate to break it to you, man, but I don’t think free Wednesday night lap dances apply in this situation,” he says weakly.

Without a word, Cas slams open the passenger side door, and Dean thinks he’s going to leave without another word, but Cas turns back at the last second, those blue eyes probing his goddamn soul. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m not here for a lap dance. I’m the fucking co-owner.”

Dean’s mouth drops open and he’s unable to formulate an intelligent response before Cas shuts the door and marches right into the scene. 

Seconds pass, and then minutes. Dean finally knows what to say. 

“Son of a bitch.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Brief mention of physical assault.

Cas rubs a hand over his mouth as he walks over to his older brother, firmly placing the gorgeous, gruff Dean Winchester out of his mind. The smell is horrible and makes him grimace, but Gabe is standing stoically, arms crossed over his chest and staring up at the building. He doesn’t look at Cas but says, “Cassy.”

“What happened?” Cas asks, ignoring the childhood nickname given to him by his other older brother Balthazar. “Is anyone hurt?”

Gabe finally turns to look at him. “No one’s hurt.” He jerks his head to the left. “As for this, ask the asshole over there.”

Cas turns, and briefly debates the pros and cons of becoming a murderer.

Alastair Lucif is sitting curbside, hands cuffed behind his back. He catches sight of Castiel and his grin is wicked, so wicked and vile and smug that Cas wants to beat it off him and suddenly he’s walking forward. He takes barely three steps before Gabe’s hand clamps down on his shoulder, the strength in the move understated but definitely there. 

“Believe me, baby bro, I know. I want to, too. But he’s not worth a damn second of our time.”

Castiel clenches his teeth so hard he can feel it in his temples. Two weeks ago, he thought they had this situation – and everything that came along with Alastair was a shitty, fucked up, disgusting situation – under control. 

Two weeks ago

It’s late and Castiel’s dead tired but he’s here at the wonderful, dazzling establishment that is Wingless Angels. The music is so loud it throbs like a heart on a drug trip and Castiel resists the urge to plug his ears. Maybe he’s getting old.

On second thought; no. Thirty is not old.

Skirting around raised platforms and tables, he makes his way down a long oak paneled hallway, awkwardly shoving his way past a couple who’s gotten a little too excited. He looks back at Uriel, one of the club’s security team, and motions for him to break up the overenthusiastic pair. Gabe’s office is at the very end of the hall and Castiel knocks twice.

“It’s open.”

He enters and immediately catches sight of Meg Masters, Gabe’s best dancer. Her dark hair is in tangles down her back. Her eyeliner and mascara lay in streaks down her face, and she’s wearing one of Gabe’s oversized sweaters and a pair of sweatpants, her legs tucked under her. Castiel sucks in a breath at her blackened eye and the bruises around her neck. “Hi, Clarence,” she says with a smile, but her voice is shaky.

The corner of Castiel’s mouth kicks up at her moniker. When he turns to Gabe, his expression is serious. “What happened?”

Gabe breaks the steeple his fingers are forming to dig his thumbs into his temples. He swivels in his high backed chair. “Alastair Lucif. He’s – ”

When Meg speaks, her voice no longer quivers. “ – a piece of shit. He wanted a…a private dance in one of the rooms. I always thought he was a little weird and obsessive but when I wouldn’t take the dance further than what the club rules allow – or further ever, as it were – he got handsy.”

“He hit you,” Castiel says quietly, the rage in his voice barely concealed. “And he choked you.”

“Yes,” Meg whispers.

Gabe curses under his breath.

Castiel turns to him. “You took care of him, correct?”

“Of fucking course,” Gabe says a little indignantly. “I’m sure he’s well acquainted with Uriel’s right hook. He’s banned for life.”

“Meg,” Castiel reaches out slowly to touch her shoulder, and is relieved when she doesn’t flinch or pull away. “You don’t have to do this anymore. We can set you up in a nice apartment in the city and you can go back to school – ”

“Castiel,” Meg says, and her tone is sharp. “We’ve talked about this. I’m not going to be anyone’s charity case. I’m almost done saving up. I didn’t work my ass off for four years in this business to end up with me being indebted to someone anyway.”

“Sweets, we’d never ask for a dime back,” Gabe frowns.

“That’s not the point. Listen, boys: Wingless Angels is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Hopefully not forever, of course, but for right now, it’s my northern star. You guys literally pulled me out of a gutter, even when I didn’t deserve it. What’s another six months? Let me do this.”

Gabe looks about to press the issue, so Castiel cuts in. “All right. But you’re taking some time off; no excuses.”

“I – ”

“One week, Miss Masters,” Gabe says firmly. “And if I see you on the premises I’ll have Uriel escort you out.”

“He couldn’t handle me,” Meg scoffs, but she acquiesces. 

Once she’s left, Castiel turns to Gabe. “Do you know what silent means, Gabriel?”

Gabe’s confused.

“‘Not making or accompanied by no sound.’ Now do you understand the term ‘silent partner?’”

Gabe rolls his eyes.

“I gave you my portion of the inheritance to start the club – ” Castiel begins.

“And I’ve given you more than double that back,” Gabe says a little testily.

“Let me finish,” Castiel snaps, placing a hand on Gabe’s desk. “I gave you my portion of the inheritance to start the club on the condition that I wanted nothing to do with it save for my part of the profits. I can’t keep coming here for every little thing you don’t know how to solve. If I were to run into a student…”

“Relax, baby bro. None of your grimy college students can afford Wingless Angels,” Gabe says, standing. “Besides, Miss Masters thinks you’re wonderful. She trusts you. She says you’re a real life unicorn. I refrained from a rainbow comment just for you.”

“Hilarious,” Castiel deadpans. 

Present

Now, Cas is resolute as he takes in the damaged building. “We’ll figure something out, Gabe.”

His older brother nods. “You’re right, Cassy. As the dream team, we always do.”

\- 

“What the hell is your problem, Winchester?”

Ruby’s harsh words cause him to freeze. “What?” Dean asks, and his tone is defensive. 

Jo looks up from the other side of the receptionist desk. Fridays are their busiest days, and Jo always swings by to help for an hour or five, depending on the situation. Five patrons are sitting in the waiting area and the phones have been steadily ringing for the past hour. 

“I’m going to second Ruby,” Jo says, much to Dean and Ruby’s surprise. “You’ve made seven laps around the waiting room.” She lowers her voice. “You’re freaking out our clients.”

Dean looks up and around, and indeed, a couple people are staring at him warily. “Oh. I’ll just, uh, go back into my office. Let me know when the twelve o’ clock is here.”

Grudgingly, Dean slinks back into his office, but not before noticing the look that Jo and Ruby exchange. He swallows. If it’s them against him, he’s really being an idiot. He sits and tries to busy himself by coming up with next week’s schedule. He can’t focus.

He hasn’t been able to focus on anything since those stupidly blue eyes attached to that stupidly attractive human crashed his car into Dean’s life. Castiel. Cas’s parents had been über religious, which probably explained the name. Shamefully, Dean had Googled the man the very night he’d met him. Cas is indeed a professor at Washburn, and his picture on the staff page brought back to life many a schoolboy fantasy for Dean.

Cas is also the author of two books, one on the study of the media in different societies around the world, and another, a goddamn New York Times bestseller detailing Cas’s two-year world trip in which he studied and observed how women are treated in the workplace in different countries.

After his search, Dean lay awake in bed and laughed at the notion of worldly, rich, bestseller writing, strip-club owning Professor Castiel Novak ever being interested in someone like him.

Thursday morning, Dean sat across the table from Sammy and wondered how he could casually bring up the professor and ask what Sam knew. He ended up staying silent. This morning, Dean spent extra time on his hair, made sure his uniform was clean and neat, and he pretty much hates himself for all of it.

The door to his office swings open and Dean looks up as Jo waltzes in and takes a seat across from him. He smiles. “Thanks for knocking. Please, come in.”

Jo dives right in. “So who’s got your proverbial thong in a twist?” She pauses. “Unless you really are wearing a thong?”

Dean leans over his desk. “Yeah, I borrowed yours.”

Jo smirks. “Lady or gentleman?”

“I have no idea as to what you’re referring to. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to at least outline this schedule in order to have it posted later tonight.”

“Ooh, this person’s really got you good, Winchester. I kind of love it.”

“For every word you speak from here on out, I’m going to dock ten scents from your paycheck. Leave,” he says, using his mock stern face and pointing his index finger at her.

“But – ”

“Ten.”

“Don’t – ”

“Twenty.”

“You can’t – ”

“Forty.”

“Dean!”

“Fifty. Wow, Jo, you’re on a roll!”

“Fine!” Jo says, throwing her hands up in the air and turning to leave.

“I expect two quarters and a dime on my desk come Monday.”

She shoots him a nasty look before slipping out the door.

Alone again, Dean rubs his hands together and looks down at his desk. He’s going to wrap this up now. And he does, at least for an hour. Dean congratulates himself as that’s the longest he’s gone without thinking about Cas in the last two days. 

And then he’s back to square one.

Ten out of ten times, Dean doesn’t hear the jingling of the bell that sets off every time someone comes into the lobby of the shop. Today he does, and it’s Castiel Novak walking through the doorway. Dean watches Jo and Ruby look up. Ruby goes back to her magazine, but Jo is staring so blatantly that Dean feels secondhand embarrassment. Then again, he’s also blatantly staring from a location that Cas doesn’t know exists, so who’s creepier here?

“Hello,” Cas nods at Jo. “I have an appointment with Dean at noon.”

“I bet you do,” Dean hears Jo say.

He’s going to kill her.

“Pardon?”

“I, uh, meant, I know you do. Because it’s in my notes. That I wrote down.” She giggles. “Let me just ring him for you.”

Dean picks up before the first ring ends. Jo swivels around in her chair and makes eye contact with him through the plexiglass. “Hello, Mr. Winchester. Mr. Castiel Novak is here to see you?” What a babe, she mouths, and her eyes are wide.

Dean glares at her. “Thanks, Jo.”

\- 

Cas smiles and thanks the cute blonde receptionist – the dark-haired one scares him a little – and heads into Dean Winchester’s office. It smells like old paper and gasoline and Old Spice and strangely, it’s comforting. Dean gestures for him to take a seat without looking up. It looks like he’s jotting down some last minute notes, and Cas is mesmerized by the muscle that works in Dean’s forearm as he writes. 

Dean glances up to look at his computer, and the light from the screen makes the green of his eyes even more intense. Cas wants those wide eyes looking up at him while his cock is in Dean’s mouth, buried to the hilt. He clenches his teeth. Castiel knows men like Dean, knows their game and their bad boy love ’em and leave ’em ways. He doesn’t need this right now. He wants this right now, but he doesn’t need it. 

“Sorry about that,” Dean says, putting down his pencil and leaning back in his chair. The soft material of his uniform stretches across his chest. “How’s it going?”

“My secret strip club nearly burned to the ground and I crashed my car into a lamppost,” Cas says, deadpan.

The corner of Dean’s mouth twitches like he’s going to smirk, but he doesn’t. “All right, dumb question. Sorry.”

Cas feels like an ass, and maybe he should. “Dean, I owe you an apology. I didn’t mean to snap at you last night. And…I appreciate everything you’ve done for me so far. I just have one more favor to ask.”

Dean is clearly uncomfortable with Cas’s words of gratitude, and he waves them away. “Hey, man, no sweat. You were under a bit of stress,” he says, and there’s humor in his voice. “What do you need?”

“I would greatly appreciate it if you didn’t mention my side business to anyone, especially your brother. I’m not sure how my students would react to me co-owning such an establishment, and I don’t particularly care to find out.”

Dean blinks, and a bit of tension disappears from his shoulders. “Oh, yeah, whatever. I mean, of course. Secret’s safe with me,” he winks.

Cas feels his face grow hot.

For fifteen minutes they go over the fate of Cas’s car, and while it’s not good, it definitely could be worse. Cas finds himself noticing small things about Dean as the man talks business, the way his hand motions add to his speech and the way his voice changes depending on the sensitivity of the news he’s delivering. Dean’s in his element here, in control, and Cas suspects being in control is something Dean appreciates more than the average human being. 

“So we’ll be able to salvage it, but it’s going to take some time and money. Does everything sound okay to you?”

Cas nods and runs a hand through his hair. “Do what you need to. Money won’t be an issue.”

Dean’s silent for a second and then he smiles and stands. “All right, sounds good. Let me walk you out.”

Castiel’s not short by any means but Dean’s taller, and Cas notices a certain lethalness to Dean that he hasn’t seen before, a subtle mess-with-me-and-you’re-fucked undertone. He wonders what put it there. As they exit the small office, Dean’s bubbly assistant says goodbye.

“Have a wonderful rest of your Friday, Mr. Novak! Dean here’ll make sure your car’s fixed up in a jiffy!”

The dark-haired receptionist – Ruby – shoots Joanna an annoyed look before giving Cas a half-hearted finger wave. 

Outside, the sky is blue and the sun is shining and Dean’s gripping Cas’s upper arm like he’s a drowning man clutching a buoy. He stutters for a few seconds and Cas is concerned he might be having an early onset stroke, but finally, Dean chokes a few words out.

“That…that is a fucking 1966 Shelby 427 Cobra,” he says, and his eyes are wide and his mouth is hanging open and he’s frozen in place.

Cas glances at the electric blue car. “I take it you appreciate the aesthetics of this particular make and model?” he asks, confused. All he knows about cars is that they have four wheels and they move when you push the pedal.

“The aesthetics?” Dean says, and he sounds so offended that Cas almost laughs. Dean lets go of Cas’s arm and walks over to the vehicle, slowly circling it. “This baby has a V-8 engine and 800 horsepower. 0-60 in just over three seconds…damn. You know Carroll Shelby created this model specifically for himself?” Dean looks at Cas and points an accusing finger at the car. 

Cas shakes his head, giving Dean a small smile. “I did not know that.”

Dean throws his hands up in the air. “It’s one of the only two ever made! How?!”

“How did I end up with it?” Cas asks, and Dean nods. “It belongs to my oldest brother, Michael. Old cars are his favorite pastime. He’s currently climbing a mountain somewhere in the Andes, so he left it with me for the time being.”

“Jesus,” Dean breathes. “I would eat a tire to get behind the wheel of this thing.”

It’s out of his mouth before he can think about it, and as soon as he says, Cas can feel his heart rise to his throat. “Are you free next Saturday?” Shit.

Dean’s head turns so fast that Cas fears for his neck. “You serious?”

“Ah…yes.” Castiel. What. Are. You. Doing?

“Like…you, me, this car and Highway 75?” Dean asks, and his eyes are wide and he looks like a kid on Christmas morning. 

“I would very much enjoy that.”

Dean punches him in the arm, but it’s gentle. “Dude, you are my new favorite person.”

Castiel tries not to reflect on the words too much, but he fails miserably and he finds himself grinning back at Dean Winchester and he knows he’s totally, absolutely, utterly fucked.


End file.
